


Doctor Who - When you meet ... Christopher Eccleston

by Samstown4077



Series: When you meet... [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Adventure, Friendship, Fun, Gen, Humour, No Smut, RPF, christopher eccleston - Freeform, what if, when you meet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Samstown4077
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would happen if you/the reader would meet Christopher Eccleston.<br/>A nameless OC / the reader meets one late evening in a store Christopher Eccleston, the actor of the ninth Doctor. To ask him for an autograph? That would be too easy...</p><p>'You both know who he is. Christopher fu***ing Eccleston. And who are you. A damn Whovian.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Who - When you meet ... Christopher Eccleston

**Author's Note:**

> This is the translation of "When you meet Christopher Eccleston" I already published in German. And this time it is written with "I" while the others are written with "you". Not sure which style is better or more comfortable to read. This story is written over a year ago, and there I preferred the "I" version.  
> I tried to find for each actor a suitable and possible (even its fictional) situation were one could meet up with them. Eccleston seems for me the one who can go out without being recognized and for me he is the type of guy who goes to a store totally at ease. This as explanation for the place setting. How I came up with the rest, I honestly don't know.   
> Read it, you will not regret it. Fun, humour, bit of adventure. No smut!

It’s one of these days. University stress, then the stress with my little side job, so I can afford at least a bit of luxury and then, when I am about to come back to my little apartment on the second floor behind the door number 5, to fill up my bathtub, the damn light bulb explodes and I don’t have any windows. So here I am, standing in the dark, with two options, one to cancel my little appointment with wellness or with a bit more effort, I walk down to the corner, to the little night shop to get a new bulb.

I decide to fight my weaker self, grab a fleece jacket, shove it over my shirt, grab some money, and walk down to the street.

It’s only a few hundred meters to the next 23 hour shop, which got almost everything and because the next proper supermarket is too far away, this is my recent aim, every time I need something. Milk, bread or like right now, a light bulb.

The store has a few isle and there always people roaming around. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It’s short after seven in the evening, so the people are still sober and the cashier is still in a good mood. When I step in, he greets me with a polite nod. He knows me from seeing.

Stupidly, I am someone who can forget what he wants to buy, in the trouble of events, and when I stay in front of the bananas, musing about if I should take some with me, I start asking myself what I wanted to buy initially. So there I stand, a banana in my hand, looking into thin air, thinking, when someone slightly bumps into me.

“Aw, beg you pardon,” the guy raises a hand for a short moment, smiles apologizing - not without looking at the banana in my hand - and then moves on.

My standard answer in such situations is basically, “Nothing happened,” and every time I say it, I think it is totally rubbish, but till today I never came up with something better. And in the end it doesn’t matter, right?

I follow the guy who bumped into me, with my eyes. He is wearing a dark blue jumper and a black jacket, short brown hair, bit tousled and a grey by the temples. For a second I believe I know the man. I just don’t know from where and before I crack my head about it, an older lady taps my arm from the side.

“May I?”

“Mh?” I look at her aghast.

“The bananas. I need bananas,” and then she grabs the fruit out of my hand, ant then the rest of the bundles in the carton in front of us.

 _‘What is going on?_ ’, I think. “That’s a lot of bananas.”

Die woman smiles, “You know, bananas are good, because of..,”

“....,because of the potassium,” I complete her sentence and I’m surprised about myself.

The woman seems to be surprised too. “I actually wanted to say, because of the vitamins, but I am sure you are right.”

Then she is gone and I still stand there and don’t remember what I wanted to buy in the first place. So I start walking along the corridors, looking around the goods, so maybe a flash of remembrance will strike me - but nothing happens. Shortly before I reach the cashier I get angry over myself and only shake my head.

 _‘When I am already here, I can at least get a Cappuccino,’_ I think and step up to the vending machine for coffee in front of the checkout.

It doesn’t look like it, but it’s really a very good Cappuccino and the price is golden. It takes a moment, then my paper cup is full and I walk over to the queue. Shortly after that I see how the guy who had bumped into me earlier, goes over to the vending machine too and pulls a coffee and I take the opportunity to ask myself again, from where I know this man.

When the cashier interrupts my thoughts, I convince myself, that he must be one of my neighbours - in the end, it doesn’t matter for me.

“Cappuccino?”

“As usual,” I smile and place the counted money in front of him. “Have a nice evening.”

I place a cap over my mug and check if it really is tight and step outside into the fresh air. It’s dark and the last evening rush hour passes by on the streets. I am happy to have my coffee and slowly walk home, from time to time nipping from my mug, when out of nowhere I remember what I wanted to buy in the first place.

 _‘Light bulb!_ ’ I call inside my head and stop abruptly and turn around on my heels.

The sounds that then develops is a mix out of an “arg”, “mhpf” and “splatt”. A typical sound, when two grown ups with two full mugs of coffee collide frontal with each other.

I only can stand back and watch how the two coffee paper mugs fall through the air and in a spectacular liquid explosion hit the ground.

My decision to turn around was a bit unexpected and short noted, for the man behind me. In consequence we both collided - how classic.

“Damn,” I swear and cry silently over the wasted coffee, but then I remember my manners and begin wildly to excuse myself, without even looking to whom I start to apologize. “I am really sorry, I haven’t seen you. My fault. I was in thoughts and…,” there is a phrase where I come from. If you see someone in a short time span three times, one must invite the other to a coffee. It is the guy from the shop and this time I know exactly from where I know him.

“You are…,” everything is happening in fractions of seconds.

Christopher Eccleston. The ninth Doctor from Doctor Who. _‘Oh my god!’_ my inner Whovian starts to go crazy, but I remember quickly, that it might would not be a benefit to ask Christopher Eccleston some crazy, fangirl questions about Doctor Who and his missing appearance in the 50th special.

First, I just have brought the man around his coffee and second, the man avoids to talk about Doctor Who for years, at least with journalists. Every Whovian knows, that there are not many details why he has left the show and that there maybe never will be.

Out of rare interviews about this topic, I have made myself my own picture of him. Although I wanted to react like a fan, my inner voice is telling me, that I might better play cool.

I am sure, when I ask him about an autograph and tell him, that he is _‘my Doctor’_ , he would be all polite and smile at me, write his name on my shirt - if one of us has a pen - and then leave me alone again in my blessedness. Doesn’t sound too bad for me.

I have never met someone famous in my hole life and everytime I see a picture on tumblr someone has posted with an actor or a singer, I think, that this is something special and at the same time that it is surely sometimes a bit weird and exhausting for the celebrity.

Maybe that sounds a bit stupid, but for one moment, when our eyes have met and in my eyes the perception shows up who the man is, I believe I can read something in him, like _‘oh no’_.

Not that he means it in a bad way, more because everybody had a long day and when I would start asking for a picture and everything, quickly five more fans will come up and make a big wave.

“Yes,” he swallows and waits literally for me, to ask him for an autograph. I can feel it.

“Peter!” I call out and don’t know what has gotten into me.

Christopher Eccleston raises his head and looks quizzically at me, “Peter?”

I decide to open up the games, out of politeness or out of panic, I would have discuss this with myself later. “Peter. You do live one floor over me, right down the street. You are my neighbour, right?”

Eccleston follows with a turn of his head my pointing finger down the street. It works in him for a few seconds, then he makes a decision. “Yes, right,” he slowly answers. “From Apartment… 7...b.”

I tip my forehead a bit too contrived, “Yes, exactly!”

There is no number 7b. For a moment we only look at each other.

We both know, who he is. Christopher Fucking Eccleston. Who I am. A damn Whovian.

Nevertheless, “I am sorry about your coffee. I didn’t saw, that someone was behind me. Everything still clean?” I point out to his sweater.

For a blink he is still in another modus, but then he slips smoothly into this little play, just like a professional actor. “Everything is fine. I shouldn’t have walked so close behind you, so it’s not only your fault,” he grins for a moment.

No wonder I haven’t recognized him earlier. Eight years have past and the Doctor has a few more wrinkles in his face since 2005, the hair is different, and aside his ears, the man looks calm and ordinary.

I look down to the brown poodle between us. “I buy you a new one,” I say and it isn’t a question.

“No, that’s not necessary,” he answers, but I can here in the tone of his voice, that he is angry as me, that the coffee is laying on the ground and not swirling around in our veins.

“I think I should. It was my fault after all,” I make a move into the direction of the store, which is no more than 50 meters away from us. “But of course, I will not press you for it.”

Probably he will excuse himself now and vanish into the night. What else? The man has better things to do here in these area. A rehearse maybe or a very important meeting with some screenwriter or some director.

“Okay,” he shoves his hands into his jacket and looks toward the entrance.

“Okay?” I haven’t expected that. “Okay!” I can’t believe my luck and lead the way.

Again we enter the store and walk over to the coffee machine. In front of us there is teenager listening his IPod and waiting for his coffee.

The silence is awkward for me, “Good I meet you, actually,” I start without looking at him. “You could turn down your stereo a bit.”

He looks at me with wide open eyes, “My stereo?”

“Yes,” I return his look and have abruptly forgotten, that this is not really my neighbour Peter. “Your heavy metal is really tiring, late at night around eleven.”

The teenager in front of us is giving us a quizzical look before he walks bored to the cashier.

I take a paper cup and place it at its designated place in the machine, before I turn to Christopher Eccleston with a asking expression.

He understands and presses the button for “espresso”. “You are right, because of … the heavy metal,” the machine starts to grind the beans and we fall into a silence for the while.

In the corner of my eyes I can see that he inspects me for a bit and then gives the situation a soundless laugh.

“What is so funny?” I ask and exchange the full cup with an empty one. The full one I hold out to him, which he takes with a thankful nod.

“This,” he makes a motion with his hand, lingers between him and me. Of course I know, what he means.

I wait till the machine has made my cappuccino and answer him in a very stern way, “Not late at night - at eleven,” but I can’t stop myself from grinning when I pure sugar into my coffee.

After we have paid, we stand in front of the store and I realize, that I want ask him something.

All the questions, to that the fans want to have an answer, but probably never will get. The why and wherefore.

However, I know I am not allowed. There are questions, one doesn’t ask. Because of reasons and decency. Politeness probably too, because the answer would damage the something, that was there before. The mystery, the many question marks that hang around this actor. He has his reasons and I have been bred up, to respect that.

Again I believe to see that he can sense my inner turmoil. He smiles lenient, “You can-,” further he doesn't come.

One of my student colleagues I share a course with interrupts us from afar with a loud, “Hello!”

“Oh, oh,” I murmur and Eccleston looks wondering at me. “That is Susan,” I only say and keep for myself, that I don’t know a bigger Doctor Fan in real life. She will notice him at once. Quick acting is now an advantage.

“Hey!” I call out, and step forward toward her, and I can see how her eyes turn to the man behind me. One can literally see, how her brain starts to bring together the informations. I take her hand, shake it, pat her arm and I am totally not myself, when I say, “You know my neighbour? From 7b?”

“Your neighbour? What?” her eyes move a couple of times between him and me around.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see how Christopher Eccleston sheepishly scratches his cheek to hide himself. “Ja, Peter! You know, the one with the heavy metal musik.”

I know she remembers, because in every learn circle I report which new song I now can sing alonge with.

“You are kidding me, right? He doesn’t even look like one of these heavy metal guys. He more looks like…”

“Yes, right? That’s what I thought first,” I interrupt her and make wild gestures. “But that’s Peter.”

She thinks for a moment about it. “Capaldi or Davidson?” she looks at me almost peeved and I don’t know how to react to such repartee.

No,” help seeking I turn around to “Peter.”

“Smith,” he makes a step forward and reaches out to shake Susan’s hand.

“Smith?” she eyes him from tip to toe and backwards. “Heavy Metal?”

“Jap.”

“Honestly, you don’t look like Heavy Metal. You aware that you look like-,”

“-Yes, I hear that regularly,” he steps back again. “But that’s not me,” he waves at it and looks down the street, boping up and down and probably is asking himself in what he has gotten himself there.

 _‘Where is the Tardis when you need one, Doctor?’_ it comes to my mind.

Susan is looking at me again, long and scrutinizing. As it seems she buys the story we are telling her. I know, she thinks I wouldn’t be capable to stay so cool, when someone like Christopher Eccleston would stand in front of me. Also not at all, because she knows, that the ninth Doctor is my favourite.

Then her expression relaxes. “You should make a picture with your neighbour. Because he really looks like him. You’ll never get closer to “Nine”,” she grins. “Fantastic!” she adds, waves at me and toddles off.

I raise my hand a bit only to wave at her exasperated. ‘What a night.”

The clearing of a throat is telling me that I have almost forgotten about Christopher Eccleston.

“I am sorry,” I turn around. “I…,” somehow I want to explain him everything and start looking for answers by my feet.

This farce, this doing by me. Now I feel stupid and childish. It would have been wiser to ask the man simply for an autograph and let him go away. Instead - this here.

“It’s alright,” he touches my shoulder for a moment and smiles. It’s this Doctor-smile and I understand what he wants to say to me without saying it out loud. In silence we go down the street till we reach my entrance to the house I live.

“I live here.”

“Ah,” he nods and looks at the house.

“You should know that,” I say, braver as I really am.

“Why?”

“Because you are my neighbour,” I wink. He makes an apologetic gesture and studies the bell signs.

“There is no apartment 7b.”

“No,” I answer. “But there is this Heavy Metal neighbour, above 5b,” I hold up my key with the sign on it.

“Peter?” he asks.

I chuckle, “No clue, what’s his real name is.”

Again we stand there in silence and we both know that this adventure now comes to an end.

“It was really nice, meeting you tonight,” he holds out his hand to me. “A very interesting evening.”

I take it and shake the warm hand, “Thanks.” It’s all I can say, all that what comes to my mind, even his eyes seem to allow me to ask more questions. To say something else.

Something, ‘You’re Christopher Eccleston’ or ‘You’re my favourite Doctor, can I have an autograph?’, but I keep quite. Why, I don’t know.

Our hands get apart again, “Good night.”

“Good night,” I smirk and watch him turn around to walk away.

There I remember out of the blue about an interview he had given years ago. 2005, when the show restarted. That he believes that not everyone will like his Doctor, but he hopes, that there will be this generation of eight to 12 years old, and for this generation he might will be “The Doctor”. The first - and if so, it would make him happy.

Suddenly something is burning in me and I make a few steps forward, “Doctor!”

Eccleston stops in his tracks and turns around to me. If he remembers the interview he has given all this years ago?

“I wasn’t twelve back then,” I call out and open the zipper of my fleece jacket. Underneath I wear a shirt with following print on it:

_‘Nine is my doctor. Get over it.’_

One can see that he needs to squint his eyes so he can read the text. Then he laughs and makes a slight bow and with that he gone.

I keep standing for a little longer by the door, even that it is cold. Am I listening maybe? Do I believe that somewhere in the distance I might hear this unique sound, that, doesn’t matter where it is heard, it only brings one thing?

Not two weeks ago I was sitting in the cinema to watch the glorious special for the 50th anniversary for Doctor Who. It had been wonderful, and yet… I was missing “my” Doctor. Now, after this few minutes with Christopher Eccleston, I know, that Moffat was right in the end.

_‘The Ninth Doctor turns up for the battle and not the party.’_

It’s cold. The Tardis will not pick me up today. The party is still on.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you liked this story leave a Kudo or way better a short comment!  
> Consider reading two other "When you meet..." stories I have written. One for Peter Capaldi and one for Paul McGann.  
> Thanks!


End file.
